Last Goodbyes
by Triskell
Summary: see title... (slashy allusions; alluded character death)


AN: Harry Potter and all related characters are owned by J.K.R. The story is mine and mustn't be posted anywhere without my express permission.  
  
Warning: alluded character death; mild slashy allusions - don't like it, don't read.  
  
  
  
~ Last Goodbyes ~  
  
© Triskell, June 18/19, 2002  
  
  
  
It was a small group that had assembled around the fresh grave - all determinedly too late to see the body interred.  
  
None of them had considered him a friend though they had long ceased to call him their 'enemy'. Even the whispered 'fiend' had hushedly been laid to rest many years ago.  
  
And yet, nothing had truly changed and for all that they stood there, silent, in the fine drizzle that surrounded them like the swirling white mists of the Yorkshire moors, they knew themselves not to belong.  
  
"He was a good man."  
  
No one spoke up. Not acknowledging, not denying. It was a mere statement of fact for them. As clear as the thought they all shared, that his death had been useless. And probably all he had wanted.  
  
A white rose appeared out of thin air in the hands of the stooped, blue- robed figure that had spoken. The long beard was as pristine as the petals and his eyes were tired as he stepped forward, placing the flower on the freshly turned soil.  
  
He raised his voice again, as reverently and calmly as before, the only one among them who could give words to the feelings hanging between them on the chilly, humid breeze.  
  
"Goodbye."  
  
The old man sighed, shoulders slumping a little more - a broken body that housed a mind still too sharp to give up on life, on pain, loss and fighting. He held out one gnarled hand and a young, slightly trembling one closed around it.  
  
Tears shimmered in emerald eyes starkly contrasted against the pallor of skin and the black, unruly hair. Moments later, the men had vanished.  
  
Of the four people left, only one held more than a passing sorrow or regret in his heart for the deceased. He sighed, "Go along. I'll be back later."  
  
The grim-faced redhead and the tall, silver-haired youth nodded, the young woman laid her hand on his arm, questioning his wish. He smiled, "I'll be alright, Hermione."  
  
His voice was rough and laced with the longing never to be fulfilled, need for a love that only one man had ever been able to offer. And failed to give. He watched with the hint of a smile, carefully hidden behind his hood as the three teens disappeared, as if swallowed by the mists. They were young still, and though their lives were harsh and deprived of comforts those their age should have, they had chances that he was never given.  
  
Alone he stood, in front of the earthen mound covering the man who had taken the brunt of a curse to save the son of an enemy long gone for one last time. Unnecessarily, for the battle was over, and his friends had pulled the black-haired boy to safety. And he had known it. A glorious sacrifice by one who no longer wanted to live.  
  
"Was it really necessary?"  
  
The darkness gave no answer, but he knew there would be a whispered 'Yes' from a deep, dark voice if he had asked the man. Glaring up at the sickle of the moon just then emerging from the shadows of the clouds - a curse that had controlled his paths and choices for most of his life - he flung back his hood defiantly. The years had beaten lines into his face and left him broken, but for his eyes which glowed with a hidden fire.  
  
The mists were receding, had been vanishing themselves with the departure of the mourners. In the pale moonlight, only one man remained - a star- crossed lover with an aching heart. Twists in their lives had opened chasms never to be bridged, a severing of the growing affection they had once held for each other. Not forgotten and yet impossible to accept.  
  
"Did you ever love me?"  
  
Still the shadows kept their silence - there was nothing left to say, no words that could have wrapped themselves around the emotions tangled in reality. So he fell silent, tears glimmering in slivers of insubstantial milky light that smoothed the edged contours of his face.  
  
He raised his hand slowly, the wand he gripped shaking softly as if on the wind that swept around him - unable to penetrate the frozen body with its chill.  
  
Voice rough, but with a velvet softness, he cast vivid spells that formed into the semblance of a stone, broken and torn like the men whom fate had kept apart.  
  
On the bleak, grey surface, silvery letters shone and mingled with the moonlight in a lover's silent, last goodbye.  
  
  
  
"S. S.  
  
With Love" 


End file.
